


With Each Passing Day

by jonsasnow



Series: Jonsa Week 2017 [1]
Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: F/M, Jonsa Week 2017, Poldark AU, Sexy Times, Smut, Soulmate AU, actually just read the disclaimer, also, also lyanna is not a stark, jon is ross and sansa is demelza obvies, jonsa, rhaegar is not jon's father
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-10-22
Updated: 2017-10-22
Packaged: 2019-01-21 13:55:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,291
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/12459171
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jonsasnow/pseuds/jonsasnow
Summary: Jon returns from the American Revolutionary War to find that his love is now betrothed to his cousin. Distraught and broken-hearted, he seeks to drown himself in working on his late father's land, but he finds an unlikely companion in a scullery maid who is just as alone in the world as he is.





	With Each Passing Day

**Author's Note:**

> DISCLAIMER: 
> 
> JON IS NOT RHAEGAR'S SON. 
> 
> I MADE UP A BROTHER OF RHAEGAR'S NAMED AEMON... AND JON IS AEMON AND LYANNA /SNOW/ (NOT STARK)'S SON. 
> 
> WHY DIDN'T I USE VISERYS? BECAUSE HE'S A PRICK. LOL SORRY.
> 
> BUT YEAH JUST TO AVOID CONFUSION, JON IS NOT RHAEGAR'S SON.
> 
> also idk why i was on caps. sorry. hope you guys enjoy it nonetheless!!! <33333

Curled up into his mother’s side, Jon whimpered as the storm raged overhead. Rain splattered against the house, rattling the wooden structure, as thunder roared and cursed into the night. He held onto her tightly, his tiny fists curling into her dress. Jon had tried to be brave, but the sounds made his heart beat faster and faster, racing like a rabbit through the brush. 

His mother kissed his forehead and smiled softly. “It will pass, my love. Tomorrow, you’ll see. The sun will rise as it always does.” 

Jon jumped as another crack of thunder broke through the silence. He pressed his forehead into his mother’s side and tried to still his tears. His father would be so disappointed to see him in this way. 

“Let me tell you a tale. Will that ease your fears, Jon?” 

He nodded and his mother laughed quietly, shifting them so she was leaning against the headboard of the bed. She brushed her fingers through his curly black hair. “Once upon a time, there was a young maiden. She was born to a noble family with a great name. She was sworn to another, but her heart was not made for him. Written along her skin were words never said by her betrothed, words she knew only belonged to her soulmate. But as the days grew closer to the intended date, she began to lose hope her other half would ever find her.” 

The door creaked open and Jon glanced up to find his father leaning against the doorway smiling fondly at them both. “Aye, and then one day, a scallywag saved her life and they lived happily ever after.” 

His mother shook her head. “Yes, a scallywag is what they called you. A scoundrel was another word if I recall. They warned me, you know? Told me you’d have nothing to your name. Said you kept the company of servants.”

“And were they right?” he asked, moving closer to them. 

“Ever so,” his mother grinned. “A scallywag and a scoundrel.”

“Aye,” his father nodded, as he joined them on the bed, one arm weaving around them both. “But I am _your_ scallywag, my love.” He kissed Jon on the forehead. “And this is _our_ lil scoundrel.” 

But his mother died a month later and the word ‘soulmate’ became a loathed word in the household. Jon soon realised the words written along his back were not ones to rest his hopes and dreams upon for soulmates could still break your heart and Jon had enough heartbreak to last a lifetime. 

He found a rhythm in life that led him from one pleasure to the next, gambling with what money he had and finding love in all the wrong places. And for awhile, Jon was content. As the son of the youngest son, his responsibilities were minimal and he could whittle the day away as he pleased. But that was until he met Margaery. For all that they were not soulmates, he had found no love like the one he found in her arms, in the sweet kisses she laid upon his lips, and in that instance, Jon knew he would always be hers in some measure or form. 

If only life could give him time to truly make her his, but his sinful pleasures soon found its way into his world and Jon was given a choice: the gallows or the army. He promised he would return for her and that one day she would be his, _truly_ , as he was and would always be hers. 

The American Revolutionary War led him far from the shores of Scotland, into a country so foreign to him he scarcely made it out alive, broken was his spirit and scarred was his face. A long thin scar trailed from his temple to his cheek, a reminder of what he had lost in the war and all that he had overcome to return to his darling love. 

And as Jon made his way back to Britain, the carriage bumping along a familiar dirt road, his ears prickled at the words being spoken by his travel companions. 

“A scoundrel like his father,” a woman said. “But he is of a great name. The Targaryens have been around these parts for centuries.”

“But what is he returning to, ma’am?” another man spoke. “There is not much to be desired in the lands his father left behind, nor is the mine worthy of any coppers.”

“He still has his uncle. I dare say he won’t be destitute for long.” 

Jon opened his eyes and straightened in his seat. “Is my father dead, ma’am?”

The woman startled and blushed, ashamed at having been caught speaking so brazenly of Jon and his affairs. But it was the man that replied. “Yes. Some months ago now. Have you not heard, sir?” 

He shook his head and inhaled deeply. His father had once been loving and kind, affectionate in a way that most fathers weren’t, but his mother’s death had taken more than just a piece of the man. Losing a soulmate like that had torn the very fabric of who he was and he had never been the same since. Jon could blame the man for his neglect, but he thought of Margaery then and what it would cost him to lose her. She wasn’t even his soulmate yet the very idea rattled him so deeply. Whatever his father had become, Jon could not blame him for it nor could he feel anything other than aching sadness at the loss. 

The carriage came to a crossroads, one way leading to beyond the Wall and one towards his home in Winterfell. He pounded on the side of the carriage for it to stop. 

“Are you not heading home, sir?” asked the woman.

Jon turned and let a smile slip past his mask. “I can’t imagine a warm welcome at home with my father dead, ma’am, but perhaps my uncle will receive me with much more enthusiasm.”

The woman flushed once more before Jon exited the carriage. He heaved the bag with his meagre belongings over his shoulder and began his walk towards Dragonstone. 

As Jon had expected, an enthusiastic welcome was what he indeed receive, but a surprise of which he could never have foreseen soured the whole affair and Jon could only stare with despondent eyes at the family he had not seen in three years and the woman he had loved engaged to another. 

“Oh, we are so _thrilled_ for Margaery to be wedded to Aegon,” Olenna spoke, keen beady eyes watching Jon. She had never approved of their love and it would seem the rumour of Jon’s death had been her opportunity to wedge a barrier between them. “Two great houses united at last.” 

Margaery shifted in her seat. Beautiful as the day he had met her, Jon couldn’t fathom a world where she couldn’t be his, but now, here it was – and god, had he been so naive as to think that a woman like Margaery would wait for him? She was a proper lady and he was merely a scoundrel. Just like his father. 

But had their love not been foretold by the stars? Soulmates, perhaps not, but it was real. What they had had been _real_ and yet she was to be married to his cousin. What cruel fate was this?

“Jon,” Rhaenys placed a hand over his forearm. “Are you okay?” Her words were little louder than a whisper, but he felt it echo like thunder in his ears. He glanced to his beloved cousin, the relief of his return still alight in her eyes but yet there in its murky brown colour was the seedling of pity. Jon could not stomach the pity. Oh, he had not survived a war to come back and be welcomed with such pity. 

“I must be on my way,” he announced abruptly, standing up as the legs of his chair scraped obnoxiously against the floor. “I will visit you again, uncle.” He looked to Margaery. “And congratulations. I fear I had not said that.” 

The days rose and fell like waves upon the shores, swells of aching grief and loneliness to recessions of feeling altogether, until Jon could no longer toil away at his land. There was much work still left to be done, but the market in town today would be a much needed distraction for his turmoiled thoughts. He could purchase cattle, chickens, something to keep his home above the destitution that so many have already said would befall his arrival in Scotland. Jon may be the spitting image of his father in looks and temperament, but he’d always been as stubborn as his mother and she was a true daughter of Winterfell. Strong and determined, and above all else, headstrong in the face of what society dictated. Jon drew upon her strength today as the wedding of Margaery and Aegon fell closer to pass. 

Town was as he had remembered with gentile society wandering the street as the working class wavered on its outskirts like oil on water. He ordered Jud to barter for some cattle and strolled through town, reacquainting himself with the marketplace. He was nearing its centre when he heard commotion. A dog barked and whimpered loudly as it was dragged into a circle where another waited, snarling with bared teeth.

“Let her go!” screamed a voice, youthful and pained. “She ain’t done nothing wrong! Let her go!” 

A young girl, dirt marring her pale features, was flung from one man to another as they tried to hold her back from the proceedings. A torn and ragged tunic hung off one bony shoulder, while her hair was pulled back and hidden beneath a rag as if she was attempting to disguise herself as a boy, though why she tried Jon could not understand. It would be impossible not to notice her as a girl, scrawny and dirty perhaps, but a girl nonetheless. 

“I said let her go! She’s mine!” 

The girl was thrown to the ground with a loud thud and Jon could not stand idly by any longer. He pushed through the crowd and stopped a man from hitting her. “That’s _enough_. Be on your way.” 

“And who are _you_ to tell me what to do?” the man spat out. 

Jon pressed his hand over the hilt of his dagger and drew it out, hitting its butt across the man’s cheek.

Another man quickly rushed forward, placing a cautionary hand over his friend’s shoulder. His whisper was hushed but clear enough to be heard. “That’s Jon _Targaryen_. Let it go.” 

The two retreated and the circle began to disperse. Jon rushed to the girl, trying to help her rise, but she shrugged off his touch as she raised her eyes to his, steady and unafraid. Jon flinched back, almost as if scolded by a burning fire. Her eyes were the bluest he had ever seen, like the summer sky after a storm. 

“I will not hurt you, girl.” 

“All men hurt me eventually.” 

She stood up and brushed the dirt from her trousers, which Jon was now realising were like her tunic, too large and hanging off her thin frame. Perhaps it was this that had obstructed the implication of her words from his mind, but Jon could only focus on this girl and how she looked in dire need of a hot meal. 

“Aye, you may be right,” Jon said, for he knew of the pain caused by men too. The scar along the side of his face spoke of that. “But would you be opposed to a meal from a man?” 

The girl studied him warily. “And what will I have to do? I am no whore, sir! I will not be bought!” 

Jon blanched in horror. “I did not ask you to sell yourself, girl. I am offering a meal. Take it or leave it. It matters not to me.” 

She stared at him for another second before nodding, following him quietly towards the Red Rose. As they reached the pub, she paused. “Stay, Lady,” she said, turning back to the white and grey wolf-dog. “I will be back.” 

Jon took her to the farthest table from the entrance and sat her down while he went to order. He couldn’t help staring surreptitiously at her as he queued. There was an unquestionable familiarity about her that he could not place, but he was sure he had never met a girl quite like her in his life. 

With the bowl of stew in hand, Jon made his way back to the table and placed it before her. “What’s your name, girl?”

“Sansa,” she answered proudly, chin jutting out. “Sansa Stark.”

“Mhmm,” Jon said. “Jon Targaryen.” 

She nodded, but in a manner of seconds, she was digging with fervor into her food as if she hadn’t eaten in months. In all honesty, Jon suspected she had been starved for nearly as long. She was so thin, so bony in her figure and her hair from what he could see underneath the rag was matted and limp. 

“Jon.”

His heart stuttered in his chest. Jon stood brusquely as she came closer. A blue gown complemented her figure, curving inwards around her body, and Jon found his mouth going dry simply at the sight of her. 

“Is this the… Is she…” 

“Aye,” Jon cut her off. He could not stand the pain of being in her presence. He wanted her to leave. 

“I see,” Margaery said. “It is a wonderful thing you did for her. Many may not say so, but… you always were brave.” 

He snorted. “Is it bravery now to stop a grown man from beating a child?” Sansa made a noise in protest, but he didn’t look at her. “Maybe the war I should’ve been fighting was not across the seas but here in Scotland after all.”

Margaery flushed, but she looked reprimanding. “Society has always been this way, Jon. You know this.” 

“Do I?” Jon said. “I thought I knew a lot of things when I was here, but I suppose I’m wrong about them all.” 

Before she could respond, the door burst open once more and his cousin sauntered in, a smile on his lips and a look of innocent naivety in his eyes. “Cousin! What a spectacle you made of the market today!” 

“So I did.” 

“Barely a month into your return and you are still the same old Jon as always,” Aegon laughed. He placed a hand on the small of Margaery’s back and steered her away. “Come. We must be on our way now. Visit soon, Jon. Father is looking to speak to you!”

Jon nodded without much enthusiasm and turned back to the table. It was then he noticed something he hadn’t before. Where Sansa’s tunic had fallen down one shoulder, a myriad of silver lines could be seen crisscrossing her pallid skin. “You _have_ been hurt,” he said out loud. 

Sansa immediately pulled at her tunic and huddled forward to hide them from view. “Wasn’t them.” 

“Then who?” Jon asked as he sat back down across from her. She eyed him cautiously, so he felt inclined to add, “you can trust me.” 

She laughed, a short bark devoid of humour. “I trust no one.” She twirled the spoon around her stew. “If I tell ya, sir, I’ll be getting myself into trouble. It ain’t worth it. He only hits me when he’s drunk.” 

“It looks like he’s drunk a lot,” Jon pointed out gently. His heart thundered with anger and he longed to find the bastard who could lay a finger on a girl like this. 

Sansa shrugged. “It is what it is.” 

“Are you loyal to him? Is he a father? A husband? Brother?” Jon asked suddenly. 

“I have no family left, sir. They’re all dead,” she said quietly. “And I am not wedded.” 

“A master then,” he guessed, and she nodded. “You are not bound to him. You can leave.” 

“And where shall I go?” Sansa snapped. “I have no family and nothing to my name. He offers food and lodging. It is all I have.” 

“Then work for me.” Where that had come from, Jon couldn’t readily say, but he had never felt more sure of anything in his life. “I am in need of a kitchen maid. I can’t pay you, but I can offer more than just food and lodging. I can offer you clothes that fit and… and safety. I promise I will never lay a hand on you and I will never let another do either.” 

Sansa was silent for a long while. She was studying him, just as she had done before, and it unnerved him more than he would like to admit. It was her eyes. They were so blue and piercing and there was so much more there that he could not decipher. He felt small under her gaze.

Eventually, Sansa shrugged. “Can Lady come? I don’t go nowhere without her, sir. She’s my friend.” 

He sighed. “Aye, you may bring her.” 

It would be a sentence he’d come to regret as he awoke every few weeks to the damn wolf-dog howling at the full moon, but he found he didn’t regret Sansa once. She was a hard-worker and a quick learner. Her fingers were nimble, more so than he’d ever imagine of a scullery maid, but she could sew and stitch as well as the most highborn ladies in town. She never once complained about the workload given to her nor did she say much about her past life or the scars that still marred her back like a constellation Jon was dying to trace and uncover. 

Over the months, Sansa grew plumper with a steady diet, her curves filled out and soon the colour returned to her skin. Her hair, freed from the rag, was long and red like the copper Jon had been pouring his livelihood into finding in the mines, but in the early light of dawn, it burned like fire, reflecting so many shades of red Jon had lost count. She was smart, thoughtful and had a wit so sharp he could only wonder how she had not been born a lady. 

“A long day, sir?” 

Jon kept his gaze on the documents in front of him as he tried to find a way to entice more investors to his father’s mine. “As long as the last. Sansa, will you please bring out –”

A bowl was placed before him with steaming rabbit stew. 

“Thank you. And some br –” 

A thick loaf of bread was dropped beside the stew on a plate. 

“Yes, and could you please fetch the –” 

“Brandy you keep hidden from Prudie and Jud. Yes, sir.” A small glass and a half-filled bottle of brandy was then placed down to the side. “Will that be all, sir?”

Jon looked up then and caught the small smirk playing at her lips. He frowned. “Am I so predictable, Sansa, that you have bored of me?” 

She pursed her lips to keep from chuckling. “Never. How could I ever bore of you, sir?”

“You’re mocking me,” he pointed out.

“ _Me_ , mock a gent? Would that not be treason?” Sansa asked with a smile. 

Jon’s fingers twitched as he had the sudden urge to run his fingers across her hips to find her most ticklish spot, but he refrained and tried not to dwell on such a bizarre desire. “You are certainly mocking me, Lady Sansa.” 

Abruptly, a dark shadow crossed her face and the smile dropped away as she stepped back. “I am no lady. Will that be all, sir?” Her voice, now clipped, took on a detached tone and Jon could not fathom what had brought on the change.

“Ah yes, Sansa. That’ll be all.”

She curtsied, though it was awkward and stilted. “Good night, sir.” 

The wedding day had arrived and Jon found he could not find a reason to refuse his own cousin’s invitation. He pulled on his finest, combed his hair back and rode on horseback to Dragonstone where he met Rhaenys in the foyer. His dear cousin seemed more subdued than ever these days and he had to wonder if she ever felt neglected by Uncle Rhaegar. At twenty-five, Rhaenys was getting on in her years, past her prime as some of the women in town liked to gossip. Marriage was simply not in her future any longer. Today must be rubbing salt into an old wound. 

Jon placed his arm around her shoulders. “I so dearly pray that Great-Aunt Rhaella gets smashingly drunk and steals the show.”

“Jon!” Rhaenys scolded, though she hid her laugh behind the sleeve of her gown. “That is awful. This is Aegon’s wedding. We cannot wish that.” 

He smirked and squeezed his cousin’s shoulder. “Aye, but doing what we shouldn’t do is much sweeter than doing what we should. Is it not, cousin?” 

Rhaenys sighed and stepped away from his embrace. “Let us not have this discussion today of all days.”

“I would support you,” Jon murmured. “Uncle cannot keep you hidden forever.” 

“He can if he bids it, Jon,” Rhaenys said. “He is my father.” She smiled sadly at him and walked away, disappearing into the throng of well-wishers. 

Jon sighed.

He bore the brunt of the wedding ceremony with smiles and as much good cheer as he could muster, but at the reception, he found his energy waning and Jon escaped from the main party into a near-to-empty room with only a few guests conversing amongst themselves. It wasn’t long till she found him. 

“I did not expect you to come,” Margaery said. He refused to look at her, preferring to stare out through the large bay windows at the rain dropping full and fat onto the ground. “I am glad you did, Jon.” 

“I came through no obligation to you but to my cousin and at the request of my uncle,” Jon answered her. Harsh as it was, she no longer had any claim to his heart; she had thrown that away when she gave up on him. 

“That’s not fair,” she whispered. “This isn’t easy on me either, but you were gone for _three_ years. I thought you dead. I had to move on, Jon. I don’t have the luxury of mourning you all my life. I am a lady. If I did not marry, I would have nothing.” 

“So you married my cousin,” Jon said through gritted teeth. “Of all the people in this godforsaken town, Margaery, you chose to marry _my cousin_.” He glanced at her now and fury whirled in his gut. “I have wanted you from the day I laid eyes on you. I have loved you through death itself and yet here I am at your wedding to Aegon. Shall I be the better man and say I’m happy for you? Because you and I both know I am not that. I am my father’s son.” 

Tears pooled in her eyes. “Jon, I… I’m sorry. I hope we can be friends one day. _Please_.” 

Jon laughed. “Perhaps one day, Margaery, but not today.” He caught sight of his cousin making his way over and Jon bowed to the woman he had once loved so wholeheartedly. “I wish you a happy marriage. Good day.” 

The ride home soaked him through to the bone. He shivered and shook as water dripped from his hair. Jon pulled the horse into the stable and stalked into the house, slamming the door shut in his anger. He peeled the tunic off as he made his way through towards the living room. He had expected an evening reprieve of the turmoil that sought to control his thoughts, but instead of an empty house, he found his scullery maid dancing to a song hummed under her breath, wearing a dress his mother had sewn from years gone by. The anger he had felt from his conversation with Margaery bloomed at the sight. 

“What are you doing?” 

Sansa jumped and whirled around. “I – I thought you’d be gone all night!” 

“So you thought it your right to take what isn’t yours?” Jon demanded as he took a step forward. 

“No, sir!” she said quickly. “That is not – I found it in the chest. I didn’t mean any harm, sir. I just thought I’d try it on. I was going to put it back!” 

“Take it off!” he roared. “Take it off now or so help me I’ll send you back to where you came from!” 

Her eyes hardened and she was the one to step forward this time. “I will _not_ be threatened by another man,” Sansa said clearly. “I am not afraid of you. I am not afraid of him. You wish me gone, sir? I am gone.” She pushed past him, her shoulder hitting his so forcefully that even he stumbled backwards as she went. 

Jon stood there for longer than he should’ve, his eyes staring into the fire as it flickered, casting shadows across the walls, and he wondered so earnestly how he could feel so much worse than he had done in months. 

A wolf howled in the distance and Jon startled to life. 

Oh, what had he done? 

Grabbing the wet tunic from the floor, Jon pulled it hastily on and ran out of the house. He knew not to even look at the servant’s quarters. She would never go more than two feet from Lady and that howl sounded far away. Jon rushed back into the stable and pulled himself up on his white steed. Ghost whinnied in dismay, but reared forward at a breakneck speed as Jon raced towards where he thought he had heard the wolf-dog. 

She could not have gone far. It was late into the evening, rain was still pouring down and the cold was beginning to seep into every crevice and nook in the country. If she made it to morning, she would be wracked with fever and she may not survive that. Sansa may be healthier than she had been since she came to work with him seven months ago, but she was still young, frail and thin. Jon tapped the heel of his boot against Ghost, urging his faithful companion to go faster than he had ever gone before. Sansa had to be here somewhere. She _had_ to be. 

It was close to an hour before he spotted her. Nearly hidden amongst the fields of flowers beyond his land, Sansa walked slowly, red hair piled on top of her head, with Lady right beside her. She still wore his mother’s dress, but he found he no longer cared. He rode swiftly forward.

“Sansa, please!” he called to her. “I’m sorry! I didn’t mean to speak so harshly with you!” 

She stopped but did not turn. “I know I am merely a scullery maid. I know what your people think of me, but I have my pride, sir. I have my dignity. And I am not going to let any man push me around like they own me any longer.” 

Jon dropped from his horse and walked to face her. 

“I am Sansa Stark,” she bit out angrily, while looking at the ground. “My father is Eddard Stark. My mother Catelyn Tully. I had three brothers, Robb, Rickon and Bran. And a sister named Arya. We were poor but we were loved and respected. Even the gents and ladies respected my father. He was intelligent and my mother the finest seamstress in all of Scotland.” 

“What happened to them?” Jon asked quietly. This was the most she had ever told him about her family. 

“Consumption,” Sansa said slowly. “Well, Robb died in the war and Arya… I haven’t seen my sister in years. I don’t rightly know if she is alive or dead.” She glanced up then. “I may not have been born a lady, sir, but I _am_ worthy. I’m a Stark and I deserve your respect!” 

He took her hands in his. “You do and I’m sorry. I truly am, Sansa, and I promise I will never treat you that way again. Please come home.” 

“Is it home?” she asked. 

Jon’s heart ached at the question. “It is as much my home as it is yours.” 

A small smile flittered to her lips and it was as if the sun had broken through the greyness of the world and shone upon them. 

The ride home was quiet and soon they reached the house in record time with Lady running alongside them. Jon helped her from Ghost and led her into the house. He looked at his mother’s dress, wondering how he had not noticed before the way the blue brought out her eyes or the way it cinched at the waist, hugging her curves in such a way that made it nearly impossible for him to look away. 

Jon cleared his throat. “You should take that off. You have been in the rain for some time now.” 

Sansa nodded and walked away from him towards the servant’s quarters. 

A long sigh escaped his lips as he made his own way towards his bedroom upstairs. Jon pulled his tunic over his body and threw it into a pile at the corner of the room. He was just beginning to undo the buckle of his belt when there was a knock on his door. “Come in,” he called. 

Sansa stepped tentatively inside. She looked nervous. “I… The dress. It laces in the back.” 

He nodded for her to come forward, far too aware of the rapidity of his beating heart or the way his skin burned at the proximity of her warmth. Sansa turned for him and Jon raised his fingers to the top of the dress, pulling gently at the lace until it came undone. He could hear her ragged breathing as he continued his work slowly down her back. He’d be lying if he said he wasn’t as affected. 

“You have heard the rumours they speak of us?” 

Months of taking Sansa to the mine with him had led to many of the townsfolk to speculate over the nature of his relationship with her. Jon had paid no attention to them as for so long he had believed them only to be master and servant, friends at most, but he could no longer deny the attraction he felt. 

“Yes,” she said softly. 

“If we allow this to happen then they’ll be true.” 

Sansa inhaled deeply before she said, “then let it be true.” 

Where Jon’s fingers had been holding the dress from falling down her shoulders, he now allowed them to delve underneath the fabric, curling his hands around her bare waist and feeling the warmth of her skin seeping through to him. The dress fell from her shoulders and bunched at her waist, and Jon chose that moment to lean forward and nose at the hollow of her neck as he trailed his hands up her abdomen to rest just under her breasts. She shivered into him then, her back arching against his chest. And it was that small action that broke the dam. Jon turned her in his arms and kissed her as deeply as if he could convey exactly what she was doing to him, but by the way Sansa curled her arms around his neck, pressing herself against him as forcefully as she could, he suspected the feeling was mutual. 

He broke their kiss to trace the line of her jaw with his tongue, tasting the salt of her skin and the sweetness of something else he couldn’t pinpoint. He pushed the dress the rest of the way down until it pooled at her feet. “I have never,” he whispered as he sucked at her pulse point, “met anyone,” he nipped at her skin and rejoiced in the mewl of satisfaction, “who grew more beautiful,” he continued as he took his journey down to the swell of her breasts, swirling his tongue over her soft skin, “with each passing day.”

Jon dropped to his knees, pulling her underclothes away, and gripped her hips. “Sansa,” he looked up at her. “Do you trust me?” 

Her cheeks were flushed as she nodded. “More than you know.” 

And that was all the encouragement he needed. Jon kissed at the juncture between her legs, urging her to spread them wider apart, so he could reach the little nub that he sought so needily. As soon as he pressed his tongue against the bundle of nerves, Sansa cried out, her fingers curling into his hair and holding on. That only spurred him on as he sucked and soothed in a rhythm that grew more frantic as her cries grew louder. When her grip on his hair tightened and her breaths became shorter and faster, Jon brought one hand down and immediately pushed a finger into her core, reveling in the way she cried out his name and squeezed around him. It didn’t take much long after that for Sansa to convulse from his ministrations. She fell apart against him, but Jon was there to catch her, holding her up in his arms. 

“I did not know it could feel that way,” she told him with wide eyes. “But that isn’t it, is it?” 

He laughed and kissed her temple. “No, it isn’t, my love.” He tugged her towards the bed, laying her gently down onto the mattress, and kissed his way up from her thigh to her breasts. She jumped as he took her nipple in between his lips. It would appear that Sansa was just as sensitive there as she was between her legs, and within seconds, she was pushing him away with both hands to the chest. “Jon, if you don’t stop, I’ll fall apart again. Please... I _need_ you.” 

Jon’s laughter rumbled between them. “If you wish.” 

He kicked off what remained of his clothes and settled himself over her. For the first time all night, he took a moment to really look at her and he knew with wholehearted certainty that what he’d said earlier was undeniably true. From the day he met her, Sansa had been little more than skin and bones, but as the days turned to weeks and the weeks to months, she had grown more beautiful, more captivating than even the finest lady. Her cheeks were constantly pink from the physical exertion of manual labour and her hair was as red as fire, wild and free, long enough to reach her waist. How Jon had convinced himself that he was not attracted to her, he did not know, but now that he let those walls crumble, he could not see her without needing to tell her over and over again how easily she took his breath away. 

So Jon decided to show her. He guided himself down to her opening and Sansa inhaled sharply as the tip teased her tentatively. He ran his fingers down her face, smoothing his thumb across her cheek. “It’ll be okay. But if it hurts too much, tell me.” She nodded and Jon took that as his cue to push forward, gently inch by inch, until he was buried to the hilt. He stilled and waited, allowing time for Sansa to adjust, but she arched up into him and Jon grunted loudly at the sudden sensation.

“I am not made of porcelain, Jon,” she grinned.

Meeting him thrust for thrust, Sansa urged him on as her nails scratched down his back. If he had ever thought her frail and timid before, he was being rightfully proven wrong. Sansa was loud and demanding; she cried out his name any time their bodies met and she’d run her teeth along the column of his neck, nipping if she needed him to go faster. When he could feel her walls begin to tighten around him, Jon leaned back on his knees and grabbed hold of her hips to change the angle so that she could feel him more deeply. It had the desired effect when Sansa moaned, her eyes fluttering shut as her fingers twisted into the pillow behind her. 

Jon continued until he could no longer hold out, his own body rising and falling over the cliff just as hers had done only moments before. He let out a grunt, uttering her name on an exhale that sounded more primal than even he could recognise. He dropped onto the bed beside her, pulling her onto her side and against his body, so he didn’t have to separate just yet. 

Jon raised a hand to cup her cheek. “Sansa?” 

She opened her eyes, a smile forming on her lips. “Mhmm?” 

“Nothing,” he laughed, kissing her on the lips. “Good night.” 

The next morning he found her gone from his bed, though he was not surprised as much as he was simply disappointed. Jon dressed as he would any other day and went to his study to continue working on the proposal for his investors. They would need gunpowder to break through the cavern walls and that would require more money. Jon could not dwell on Sansa today, at least until she returned, but even as he considered that conversation for a minute, he could not readily say what he would tell her or what he wanted. All he knew was she lingered on the edges of his mind in a way that made it hard to concentrate for long. 

He raised the bell, ready to call for Prudie or whoever was available, when the woman in question poked her head into his study. “Sir, Miss Margaery is here to see you.” 

Jon’s heart sank to the soles of his feet. He nodded and said he’d be right down. 

“Margaery,” he greeted. “What are you doing here?” 

She wrung her hands and sighed. “I did not wish to leave such hostilities between us, Jon. Please let me talk.” 

He gestured for her to sit and braced himself for what was to come. It felt like years already but he realised it had only been a day since her wedding. 

“I _loved_ you,” Margaery began. “With all my heart. Truly, I did. And maybe a part of me will always love you, but there is something you must understand that I feel remiss to have kept from you.” 

But as soon as Margaery opened her mouth to continue, the door burst open to reveal Sansa, a bouquet of wild winter roses in her hand. Her hair was messy, down and tangled from the wind outside, and she gaped at Margaery before curtsying awkwardly.

“Ma’am,” she murmured. “I didn’t realise… Would you like any refreshments?” 

“No, that will be quite alright,” Margaery smiled kindly. “Those are beautiful.” 

Sansa looked to the flowers in her hand and raised them towards Margaery. “You can have them if you wish, ma’am.” 

“Oh, that… uh, that won’t be necessary,” she said quickly. “I fear they are already wilting anyways. They won’t last the ride home.”

Sansa glanced to the flowers and something in her expression made an ache grow in Jon’s chest, but before he could make sense of it, she nodded, placed the flowers onto the table and walked out. 

He started to rise, but Margaery spoke first. “Jon, Aegon’s my soulmate.” He froze, what words he might’ve said fell numb on his tongue. “I didn’t know at first. We had been so young when we met; I couldn’t remember the first words he ever spoke to me, but he remembered mine. He never said because of you, but when we thought you had died, he confessed and… and I’m so sorry, Jon. I am.” 

Jon nodded. “ _Soulmates…_ ” It clicked then and he wondered how long he had blinded himself to the truth because he had been grieving over his lost future with Margaery, how long had he denied himself what his body and soul had been desperate to have. 

“I have to go,” he said quickly, grabbing his coat, and rushed out the door.

He knew where she’d be. It was the only place she went to when she needed space for herself and Jon soon found her ankle-deep in the ocean. “Sansa,” he called out. 

She glanced over her shoulder, her eyes red-rimmed and tired. 

“I should have known, Sansa,” he said, softer now that he was closer. He reached for her wrist, tugging so she would face him. “I don’t know how I didn’t realise it, but you’re mine, aren’t you?” 

Sansa nodded. 

“And you’ve known all this time?” he asked; she nodded again. “Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you say anything?”

She laughed and shook her head. “Tell you what? You’re my master. I’m only a scullery maid and you’re in love with Miss Margaery. I was just happy to be near you, but I don’t – I don’t think I can do it anymore.” 

“You wish to leave me?” Jon asked, surprised. “Again? Are you not happy anymore? Do I not feed you well? Respect you? Protect you as I said I would?”

“No, that’s not – there is no doubt that you have, sir!” Sansa cried out. “But after last night, I thought that… that maybe…” 

“You wouldn’t be my servant any longer,” Jon finished for her.

“Yes, and I see now how foolish I was,” she said, unable to keep the tears at bay. “I know having a soulmate doesn’t mean much to some people, but it does to me and I can’t live here and watch you love another. I just can’t.” 

“Do you love me because I’m your soulmate?” he asked her. “Is that it?” 

Sansa’s eyes flashed with fury. “Do you think so little of me, sir?” She pulled her wrist away. “I may believe in soulmates, but I lack very little faith in men and you are the most stubborn, most irritating and sullen man I have ever met. But I love you. And maybe it is in spite of all those reasons, but I do because I _know_ you.” 

Jon smiled then, as he reached for her hand again. “And do you think so little of _me_?” he asked. “I may be slow, that is true. Last night may have started as a distraction for me, a salve for bitter old wounds, but the moment you touched me and let me have a part of you was the moment you redeemed me.” He kissed her hand. “I am and will always be yours, Sansa. I _love_ you.” 

“But… what of Miss Margaery?” 

“Aye, I cannot deny I will always love her too. Or that her marriage to my cousin doesn’t still hurt,” Jon admitted. “And I feel that… having a soulmate isn’t finding someone you will love instantly and tremendously. But it’s having someone you can grow to love more with every day. And I do. Sansa, _marry_ _me_. Say you’ll be mine and I promise my love for you will always continue to grow.” 

She laughed as she wrapped her arms around his neck. “Oh Jon, I was always yours from the start.” 

They were married in the winter just as the first flakes of snow drifted to the ground. The town was ablaze with scandal. A scullery maid and a Targaryen; it was unheard of. Those who did not know the couple gossiped with blackness in their hearts, condemning Jon for his actions and criticising Sansa for her meagre upbringing.

But Jon kept to his word and he loved his wife more with each passing day and nothing ever mattered to the couple more than their love together. 


End file.
